Solitude, My Fate
by Engineer Jess
Summary: [Written before OotP] Another Snape short. This time he reflects his bitter loneliness and some future hazards. Set around the middle parts of GoF.


AN: This is a little piece about Snape reflecting his loneliness and some future hazards. Set around the middle parts of GoF; after the case of Karkaroff showing the Dark Mark on his arm. Sorry if this has been done before; the intention is not to steal anyone else's ideas. Can be out-of-character.

**Solitude, My Fate**

_"Solitude..._

_...it is what ticks me sometimes in this place..._

_Sometimes...__ I feel that there is a void. But why should I care? I fall pathetic. Void... so what? I have always managed to survive alone. Who needs irksome bystanders anyways? Like these aggravating kids running amok in the stairways..._

_...No worth of thinking.__ Only losers need 'friends'."_

The stone corridor was desolated. The shadows danced along the walls, as an illuminating wand flickered with red fire. The air stood still amidst the heavy murals made of craggy stones. Here and there, a rock had fallen off from the mortar. A rusty, abandoned armor made faces in one recess. Silence... only a hollow clatter of footsteps echoed in this vaulted alley.

It had to be one of the most deserted places of Hogwarts. On the other hand, the immense castle hid numerous secret rooms inside itself, chambers that perhaps were open only once a month in the delicate moment of the fullest moon. However, this gallery remained as an unsealed gateway, only being just forgotten.

Or... forgotten by the _others_. Severus Snape walked along the uneven dusty floor frequently. It was one of the shortcuts to his office down in the dungeons. But since barely anyone ever escorted him, only his shoes had made prints onto the dirt layer on the slabs.

He had found this tunnel tens of years ago, while still being a student at Hogwarts. Once, in near tears, the pre-teen boy had fled here, a pack of pranksters on his heels. As the young version of today's black-eyed teacher had been a tad shorter and not so angular as the rest of his age, he always had been underdog in front of the usual teaser gang joking at his cost. Even then, the Gryffindor quartette -James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew- had chased him in order to test some of their new jest jinxes on him. Innocent teasing or not, Snape had not taken it at ease. Always that gangsterous swarm was lurking somewhere... ready to strike.

That had been the path to isolation. This particular corridor... his shelter. His legs aching, the young Severus had rushed down, down, down the winding, endless staircases. And always the hollers had been after him.

_"Look! There that li'l frog goes!"_

_"Ready to ambush it, Potter?__ You and Remus take the left side..."_

The professor ceased his steps. The laughters still boomed in his ears, as if it had been yesterday. Insolence... His murky eyes flashed with a spark of animosity.

"Those idiots..." He definitely hated them, hated their every gag and game. The darkened mind blamed them for so many acrid happenings.

This corridor had then once provided shelter. Snape had hid inside a narrow alcove almost behind the rusting armor. Thin as the youngster had been, he had been generally invisible for the gang. They had walked past and not noticed the one lying low. The shoesteps had vanished, the pray was free.

Ever since, Snape had been friends with this frowzy space. So many times during the bleak years it had taken a hold of his hand and given lee from James Potter's plagues, or just given plain peace. That tiny niche had been an ideal place for studying potions and sometimes even for making decoctions. Not a soul seemed interested in this cove; very rarely even the caretakers raked it through. Time had expired here; the vault carried its immovable robes from decade to decade. Perhaps the tiling was a tad more weathered, perhaps the floorstones a bit more loose... but those were the only changes; the same shady solitude still hovered around. And as lonesome he had been tens of years ago. There was no difference between the past and the present.

The man sat down on a meager stone seat perching dustily in one corner. Its smooth surface was cold. Also this boulder was one of the old dull stony friends. Only that it appeared slightly smaller than on the tides of bygones. Friend... why had he called it 'a friend'? A salty taste rose up to his nose; there were no such things as 'friends' in his life. Hard experience had told not to trust pathetic mortals. They were just cheaters, most of them... this was his sulky impression. Maybe stones indeed made better friends. They were quiet, firm, and solid, unlike human beings.

But what about the youth years? He had belonged to the Slytherin House; there had been plentiful of students with a mentality similar to his. Greasy, sneaky, villainous. Yes, he had trusted a few of them, _once_...

...en route towards Voldemort's court. They had been nothing but a disappointment. Oh why had he ever listened to that cajolery? The temptations of the Dark Side. Such false, worthless lies. If his heart regretted, this was its most dismal shame.

The associations brought him to ponder the recent months. Something perilous concerning You-Know-Who was forming in the unknown shadowlands. Severus wrapped up his black sleeve. Still a check glance was made to both directions. The long crypt seemed empty. Nothing resided inside that rotting armor. Snape laid his eyes at the bare arm that was exposed to the firelight. There was some kind of figure stamped on the skin. It was rather messy, as if being in the state of constant growing. As if appearing more and more visible as the days passed.

...and so it was...

...just the same hazard Professor Karkaroff had been so jumpy about... 

Right in the middle of a Potions lesson, that old sneak had blustered into his classroom in hysterics. He had requested even the cancellation of the whole lecture so that he could have had a moment for private discussion with him. About the odd-looking sign that was growing onto his arm... and onto Severus' arm.

His pupils stared at it disgusted, ever disturbed. The upper part of the symbol was yet unclear, but the lower part depicted a snake slithering out of something. As if it had come out of something's mouth.

"That fool Karkaroff... he should have not acted so openly! Just ran straight in front of tens of eyes! And that nasty Potter... _did he see the whole thing_? He did that on purpose, didn't he? Stayed there! Supposedly cleaning up armadillo bile! As if! That snoopering brat! Always hustling his curious nose into everything that is not his business!" he muttered to himself vexed.

Nonetheless, rolling the blames on Harry Potter's shoulders would not hush the dilemma that had arisen together with this odd stigma. This was the Dark Mark, the sign of Voldemort. The same terrifying figure that had hovered above the Quidditch World Cup event that one night.

But how was it growing on Snape's arm? Once it had been burned on his skin, as he had served the Dark Lord. But why was it coming back like this? Slowly, but surely. Thirteen years it had been gone, his arm had been clean from degradation. But how now...? Why...? Only one, sole explanation revealed the issue. Voldemort was truly coming back. Somewhere in the silence he gathered more strength day by day. And thus would also the control over his old servants grow...

Snape shook his head in disbelief; it was hard to speculate. Dumbledore had seen what was forming under the sleeve. Snape himself had run to show it to the old sage, when it had began to be sure that this mess on his arm was not caused by an ink-spilling quill. Albus had fallen severe, however not much discussed about the odds. As if he had wanted to wait for a more suitable occasion... or just to plain envision what would happen. From experience, Snape was aware that Dumbledore always knew more about the movements of sky and earth than he ever directly revealed.

However... if Voldemort truly _was_ to return, what was to be Severus' fate? He would not crawl in front of that foe and moan oily apologizes. No. He would stand firmly where he was initially. Most likely it would bring him to his end, though. The Dark Side would avenge to those who were once its pawns but who had fled it.

Most likely he would die. Was it so? To be snatched in the cold grasp of the grim reaper and be tortured to the last inhale. Voldemort would not show mercy towards backsliders.

"And I do not want mercy from the darkness. Darkness has no mercy. I stand, I fall. But knowing that I have stood on my own without yielding. Even if I have to do it alone..."

_Alone...___

Again, that notion. Was he exactly alone? Or was it just this frail tardy moment that weaved such illusions? Alone...

Snape sat mute on the stone bench. The marked arm gradually descended on his lap. The pose remained bent. A frown spread across his face to replace the worried shade. His reason told that there was a firm wall of supporters standing around him. But the bitter heart sneered at this. Supporters, perhaps, but not real _friends_.

"I have no friends. Never have had. I do not need any pathetic friends. The weak and the wimps need crowds to buzz around them to get comfort."

His mouth curled into a wry smile. With ironic acrimony he in a flash-quick vision recalled the youth years again, the Marauders' teasing, the crawling time. Not a heavy difference to these days. Now he was being despised and teased by the students. This constant bashing through the years had starched his heart into a lump of cold mass that felt no empathy. It had a nook for goodness, but all the cynical embitterment usually hid it from the random outsiders.

"They enjoyed seeing me being their trick target. They enjoyed my misery. Hah. Stupidity pays with stupidity..." the greasy-haired man mused. "I do not need tricksters around me spoiling my life..." Yet, suddenly the sardonic smirk was gone. Why did he feel so hollow in his chest? When thinking about the word _friend_... the real meaning of it. This sunken sensation sometimes oppressed him; there was a void in the soul. What would it be like if... there _was_ a friend? Someone trusted... or perhaps someone that would even show _love_ towards him...

The professor cringed, grimacing. Definitely not! Such sappy mush, love was for idiots! And Severus would not allow himself such nearness. Already a single hand's touch on arm or shoulder made him feel irritated, awkward. And in the recent times, this phobia had only grown. Why did human closeness appear that inconvenient? Snape could not quite explain it. It just... was awkward.

Like that one situation years ago... funny, how it abruptly popped up this way from the oblivion. It had been just a mere skim, a woman's hand had touched his arm in the means of calling attention to something she wanted to say. She had had something to explain about the parchment she had carried... whatever it was, no hunch of that. The female had been a few-days substitute teacher at Hogwarts, perhaps in her late twenties, hair prematurely grayed. That was all Severus could recall. The name, face, mostly discolored in his mementos. A substitute... in something. Even that was hazy. It had not mattered, and still did not matter. Only that there had been this touch... the time it had tarried, it had been somehow so unprejudiced, soft.

His eyes stared at a one single spot on the grained wall. Some light moss grew right beneath it. This forgotten corner... like this hazed keepsake. Why had he even started thinking about it? Such sensitive goo was just overbearingly despising for a cold-hearted gloomy man.

Yet, he could not deny that the sweep of her hand had felt... different. The fragment of time flew past his eyes. The Potions Master had flinched, almost bounced in the air due to that little innocent gesture. He had groaned something; rather much that crow had been accidental. The woman had startled, almost dropped the parchment, instantly grown silent towards him. And the remaining few days she had stayed in the Hogwarts Castle, she had avoided his nearness.

"I did not mean it..." Snape found himself repeating. Weird. It was completely useless to remember such stupid meaningless things, was it not? But why did the though linger...? There was no sense in that.

"It is useless, Severus, useless! Forget it. Or have you began to have a weakness towards sentimentality? Sheesh!" he grated his teeth. A quick leer around told that he still resided in the crumpled old corridor. How long had he actually sat here; just surrounded by his play of mind?

The air felt chilly. He drew the sleeve back down, and wrapped his cloak tighter around him. Indeed, he had had some task in pocket. Hence he had not headed to his office just to take a chess match against a non-existent opponent.

"Dumbledore asked me to make a potion... for Lupin", he grunted, standing up. Although the part-werewolf had resigned from his teacher job, the ways had not parted. It had appeared that Snape's cookings were far more efficient than those owl-ordered medicines from the _Wizard Pharmacia International_. Hence the head of Hogwarts had comradely hinted that perhaps Severus should use his masterly skills and continue to mix the drinks he had done last year to aid the wolverine man. He would not need to be personally in touch with Remus, but the owl delivery would handle the formalities.

The Slytherin headmaster had no idea where the lupus hid nowadays. And he did not care. But after all, the wishes of Albus Dumbledore were a kind of must for him, thus he aversely had agreed to further dispense the drugs. 

Last year's incident of Sirius Black was still freshly souring his brains. And how that particular wolf person had involved in it..."So after all these years one of those tormentors needs _my help_? What double-crossing losers... I had no value in their eyes. And yet _suddenly_ I am so useful when it comes bigger difficulties ahead. Oh well, they will not return the favor. I do not want favors. And yet I should stand this."

The mordant smirk climbed back on his face. In the flickering wand light his black figure stood like some gargoyle, the greasy overgrown hair looking like a swarm of serpents.

"And if I shall fall, _they_ will not see or hear. They forget."

Snape finally took a tread forwards in order to descend down into the dungeons.

"Hypocrites..." was the last whisper the dead walls heard.

Still, a minor afterthought dwelled in his heart. Solitude, it was sometimes just so stifling. Why was there only this loneliness from day to day, had he no hope at all?

Hope to be truly cared, some day...? Or that _he_ could care...

_"Stop it, you fool!"_

Severus Snape could not deny it any longer, as much as he ever wished to muffle every crumb of sensitivity under the icy winds of pessimism. He needed life, humanity, like everyone else.

Only that this dark solitude would not grant it. Perhaps it would be up to him to make the first move... towards something else.

**...**

Only the time would show ... if the glaciers of soul would ever be molten. And whether the solitude would become the final fate... or not.


End file.
